Pulverize my guilt in a paper windmill
by son-of-puji
Summary: "I'm sorry", was his first real sentence to her. She found it awkward because it was rather her who should have apologized.


I know it's kinda unorthodox, maybe even unreasonable to write Ariadne/Fischer instead of Ariadne/Arthur but I can't seem to get my mind off of the gorgeousness that's Cillian Murphy. You should see my devART page, it's an addiction:D Anyway I think I gave some half-ass reason to make it work or make it a bit reasonable. I hope you like it.

**Disclaimer: **The usual blahblah about not owning anything, Nolan does. And one line is from a song by Last shadow puppets, called Meeting place.

* * *

**Pulverize my guilt in a paper windmill**

"_I'm sorry", was his first real sentence to her. She found it awkward because it was rather her who should have apologized._

~.~.~

He was all over on the news. On TV channels, internet sites and daily newspaper front pages at the kiosk, she saw his face everywhere.

First it was all about the funeral a few weeks back. Though it was a private ceremony, the journalists, of course, found a way to sneak in to take some private and very touching pictures of the grief of the young heir. She didn't even want to look at them, feeling like an intruder, and in connection with him, not for the first time, but she couldn't resist. There he was standing in the sea of black clothes, feigned bereavement and handshaking condolences, pale and faint, raw pain on his face. Even those shaky, blurry images succeeded in conveying his distress. He looked so lonely, lost like a little child. She couldn't bring herself to throw the papers in the dustbin, she kept them under the bed, stacked neatly. She didn't have an explanation for it.

~.~.~

"_Why are you feeling lost?" she didn't want to ask it, she thought she knew the answer and still, she wanted to hear it._

"_I don't know, maybe it's just uncertainty. Confusion. Sometimes I seem to know which direction I'm heading, sometimes I don't even know where I got the idea. But maybe I just feel left alone."_

~.~.~

When there was nothing more to say about the deceased, he apparently unwillingly appeared on the front pages once again.

Usually she never paid attention to economic news, she wasn't interested in them, therefore normally she wasn't able to decide what significance an event held, if held any. Now it was different. She could judge it by the turbulence it evoked. She could tell it was big news, and she could also tell it was something a young billionaire wouldn't do with their inherited empire. Splitting it. Kissing goodbye to monopoly power of free will. After reading dozens of articles on the subject, she was sure everyone thought it was an irrational act.

She was on a guilt ride. There was no better word to describe it: they had robbed him of his heritage and raped his thoughts. She had tried her best to regard him as some spoiled brat, but she had been there. There, in his mind, in his memories and saw all those things he wished to be true becoming true in his dream. She knew about the pinwheel of hopes and unrequited love, she knew about the disappointed last words of a dying man they forged into something less heart-breaking. The whole scheme, the whole architecture of their deception around him lay in her head, with impersonation and lies and fake conclusions, and she revisited it, awake and in her sleep, even if she didn't want to.

She couldn't forget how they gave him back a father who now he thought had cared for him, and alienated him from his uncle, poisoning the only decent family-like relationship he had with deep-rooted suspicion of unknown origin. A dead father in exchange for a living uncle; quite a dubious outcome of the deal.

~.~.~

After the inception job she wanted to fly back to Paris but stayed in Los Angeles, nonetheless. She felt uprooted. The world seemed grey and even boring on some points without the liberty and power she'd practiced over shapes and gravity and physics in general in those dreams. She tried to occupy her thoughts in designing various buildings and structures but all ended up in the dustbin because she felt bound by the laws of nature and science, and the shapes wouldn't come. She was loitering around the streets, trying to admire the architecture, all in vain. After all those hours of dream-practice and the inception-assignment she finally understood Mal. She knew how it felt coming back to a world where she had boundaries, where she wasn't in control. Where she had real issues, pain and loss. And guilt.

But she resolved on not doing it anymore, neither inception, nor any other kind of dream-intrusion. She didn't want to be waiting for a train, she didn't want to end up on a windowsill, legs swinging many floors above the ground. For long weeks, she lay awake in her bed, staring out the window and watching the dark squares of windows on the opposite building. When the city was sleeping, she was awake. It was half fear, half something else she couldn't name that prevented her from sleeping. When she got exhausted, she deliberately sat up in bed, so all she could gain was a little slumber, nothing too deep to reach dreamland. She kept the bishop under her pillow, her hand grasping it, and even during a shower she sat it on the sink within reach.

~.~.~

On the roof of the skyscraper they were exposed to the deafening wind. It was raining, the raindrops felt like needles against her skin. He was standing at the parapet, hair plastered against his head and the back of his neck. She wanted to call out his name, he was too close to the edge; _Arthur_, but it stuck in her throat when he turned. It wasn't Arthur. It was the Mark. He locked his eyes with hers.

"There's no one left…" he said and stepped over the rail, onto the top of the brick parapet. She ran there to hold him back, but it was difficult to keep her balance in the wind. It pushed her violently from behind, and with that single movement, with a horrible swing of her arms she tossed him off of the roof.

She woke up with a start, with a shriek on her lips.

~.~.~

_I'm sorry I met you, darling. I'm sorry I met you. I'm sorry I met you, darling. I'm sorry I left you._

She'd met Arthur for a few times, they tried it not once, not twice to make it work, to make it real this time but they never managed to. She blamed it on herself. There was something deep inside her that spoiled every single moment they spent together, maybe call it reservation or call it reluctance to be reminded of something she wanted to forget but couldn't with Arthur on her side. It didn't work; maybe because of the sin she thought they shared. He went back to work and she went back to trying to forget everything. It was around the time when they stopped writing about the funeral. She wanted to leave the city, she even went to the travel agency to buy a ticket to Paris when the streets were covered with his face again. She was standing there, staring at the black-and-white front pages and sensational headlines, and she couldn't make herself to leave.

That time she let down her guard and let herself fall asleep. And she started to dream about him. Mostly it was nothing coherent, just him appearing here and there, impersonating someone else she knew, teaching engineering analysis at her university or being a waiter at her favorite café in Saint-Germain. But sometimes he was crouching on a balcony in raging wind, his tie flapping violently around his face, and he was dreaded and confused, fingers turning white as he was clutching the rails for dear life, and she was there, always there, bearing his trust, and pushing him. Then there was the fall. She was always falling with him, and sometimes they never arrived, the fall didn't seem to end, it lasted for hours and miles, empty windows passing by and they reached for each other; _it's just a dream_, she would say to him, and she waited for the familiar bolt back to reality but it didn't come easily. She always woke up in sweat and a tangle of sheets. Other times he was shot dead, a quickly spreading red blur on his chest, face in a frozen expression of surprise, and she woke up with a jolt.

That was when she realized she was obsessed with him. And it was such a frightening thought that she immediately decided on leaving for Paris.

~.~.~

In the building where she stayed in LA the elevators were in the far end of the corridor from her apartment. She liked walking up there, among the lines of similar doors and flickering wall lamps. She enjoyed the shadows they casted and her own, running forward and staying behind as she walked. She waited for the elevator. It arrived with a ding, the door slid open and there he was, gagged and crouched in the corner, wrists bleeding under the rope. She grabbed the bishop and from the way it weighed she knew it was a dream.

~.~.~

She ran into him at the Charles de Gaulle airport right at baggage claim. He apparently had travelled on the first class of the same plane she'd taken. He stared at her, eyes sweeping across her face along her figure, and she froze there, half-bent over the carousel. For a horrible minute she thought he recognized her.

"I'm sorry," he said and looked away as if feeling embarrassed for the intrusive glance he'd given her. He bit his lower lip and lifted his head yet again, a frown on his forehead.

"Are you a journalist?" he asked with a hint of despair.

"No, I'm an architect."

It was a relieved smile on his lips when he turned and left.

She came across him near the entrance. She had to touch her pocket and feel the bishop because it seemed so unreal. But he was real, the friendly little nod he gave her and the slightly abashed gaze.

"It's strange. I'm almost sure we've met. It's like a déjà vu. Like I've seen you somewhere", he had a nice smile, she had to admit it. "Don't take it wrong but it feels like I've dreamt about you."

"I've dreamt about you, too", it slipped from her lips and she quickly added. "I've seen you in the news. That's why."

He nodded solemnly. "Oh. And what was the dream about?"

"You were a waiter", that earned her a small laugh. "And you spilled my order on your shirt."

He looked at his shoes briefly, hiding a smile. "Coffee? I do it sometimes."

Tomato juice, she wanted to say. Quickly spreading red blur on the shirt. "Yes."

He was nodding again. He didn't seem to be in a hurry, relaxed against the handle of his suitcase.

"And what did you dream of me?" she asked, despite herself. Everything was so weird, it seemed she didn't need to fall asleep to be a part of seemingly unreal events like this.

"I don't remember. But I was in fear", he admitted. She understood what he didn't see. She knew the reasons.

"It must be my height. They say I'm frightening," she tried to pass it off with a joke, a knot in her throat. He laughed shortly.

~.~.~

It was raining outside. Like that day. No, she corrected herself, that one was no real rain on a no real day.

"Where are you heading for?"

"Back to the university dorm."

"We can share a cab. I could drop you there."

"No, I'll take a bus. I like it." She was afraid of going with him but not because of him. Because of what he didn't know about her, and because of what she knew about him. She wanted to shake off the feeling of intimacy that intruding his mind had left on her.

He bit his lower lip, almost embarrassed of what he was about to say. "I'd be happy. It might sound weird but I don't like cabs. Sharing it with someone makes me relaxed. I'd take you wherever you want."

She went with him because she thought it was her fault. Gagged, with a sack over his head, held at gunpoint. All because in a dream he took the wrong cab.

"And what's your name?" he asked, his cheekbones glistening from the raindrops. In that very minute he looked almost vulnerable, maybe because she remembered what had happened in another cab on another rainy day. Which was a dream, she reminded herself again.

Her favorite streets were running by beyond the car window.

"Ariadne", she whispered. She didn't lie about it, fate seemed to be adamant in making their ways clash.

"It suits you. Nomen est omen: the mistress of labyrinths, an architect." His eyes gazing into the distance, he mumbled to himself. "It must be fate, I guess. I feel lost. Maybe you could guide me out of this maze."

She remained silent but she knew she would. She had already been the mistress of labyrinths in his mind, walked among the walls of deception. All of a sudden she felt ashamed, more than ever before if that was possible, now that she was sitting next to him so close.

Heavy wind blew in when she opened the door, his hair falling across his eyes. "Will we meet again? For a coffee I try not to spill?"

She should have said no. He smiled vaguely. And she gave him her number.

~.~.~

The room had enormous windows, and everything about it felt cold, the landscape outside and the metal walls and floors reflecting the white light inside gave it a chilly atmosphere. He was standing there, in the middle of the room dressed in a thin shirt, looking confused.

"Is this the labyrinth you are the mistress of? I can't find the way out", he watched her expectantly.

"I don't know it either", her voice was low and it echoed in the hall.

"Maybe you just don't want to guide me out", he guessed, his eyes sharp. "There is this door…"

And he was stepping towards the door with a control panel and with all his pain on the other side, and she knew what was going to happen because she had already seen it some other time. She wanted to warn him to watch his back, to tell him that someone was going to sneak after him but it was too late. The bang sounded deafeningly, the gunshot; and then the low thump of his body hitting the floor, and she looked down on her shaking hand, not wanting to see the red blur she hated so much. But what she saw was more sickening. It wasn't Mal shooting him. This time it was her.

The sound of the gun hitting the metal floor brought her back to reality. Her face was wet from tears.

~.~.~

She showed him her favorite spots, streets, every little café and bakery she frequented, every façade she admired. She told him stories about their long deceased architects and habitants, all she knew about French history. She walked with him across bridges and little squares from movies she liked, and he seemed to know too. In the huge city parks she was talking about the history of landscape architecture. They both seemed to prefer English gardens and it made them smile.

He followed her wherever she led him, walking along an invisible thread she was leading him by. He said he'd never seen the city in that perspective.

On the roof of the Eiffel tower they were attacked by high wind, the swaying was almost frightening.

"It doesn't look too strong", he pointed at the wire-fence running around the open terrace and she shuddered when he clutched the rails, looking down in the depth with whitening lips. "I'd never been afraid of height before…" he muttered, the wind shredding his words. She knew a reason why he would hate height now.

"I want to go down", she whispered to him, and he turned around, letting her take him by the hand.

~.~.~

He'd said he wanted to turn toward a new, modern source of energy, natural and harmless one. He wanted to part the old-school route his father had been walking down. She liked listening to him when he was talking about the new directions and plans he had because it eased the knot in her stomach she'd been feeling since the inception job. She loved the enthusiastic glint in his eyes, the way he touched her hand ever so slightly, and the smile he was always wearing when she was around. It was so easy to love him that she was at a loss how his heartless father could not. He took her with him to a negotiation he had to attend because he'd thought she would love the building, the rails, staircases and windows, it was her style, he had remarked. He was right, and it made her smile.

When they left, there was a demonstration outside, environmentalists against the traditional way of energy sources and monopolies like the one he inherited. They spotted him, and the uproar rose. Then it happened. Someone from the crowd brought out a gun, a shot was heard, the weapon got dropped, and for a minute it was all silence and standstill. Even her heart seemed to stand still.

He lay there, quickly spreading red blur on his chest. She dropped on her knees, fingers grazing the barrel.

"Try to remember…"

She looked up on the buildings, under the overcast sky the glass reflected the surroundings in a twisted, surreal way. Like a bent over street. Upside down world.

She looked down at him. "Is this real?" she whispered. If it was a dream and he died, she'd shoot herself and wake up.

Her fingers were anxiously searching through her pocket for the bishop but they were so numb; she dropped it, and it fell on its side. She shakily set it upright, tossed it and it toppled. She set it upright again. Tossed it. It toppled.

Shrieking sirens bit into her ears.

It was reality. And he was dying.

~.~.~

"Are you his relative?" the doctor asked. Everything was blindingly white. She was sitting in the corridor, feeling smaller than ever before.

"No, he doesn't have any", she said softly.

"He's alive. It was a miracle, he was lucky. The bullet didn't do any serious damage to any essential tissue."

Her head was reeling. He was alive. She wanted to cry. Her heart started to beat with such an intensity that it made the previous hours look like she'd been dead. Maybe not even only hours, but even weeks. Those weeks especially that followed the inception job. Walking around Paris with him was something different. That made her feel alive.

"Can I see him?"

"He's still sleeping but you can go in for a minute."

She stood up. There was a clink and she looked down. The chess piece fell from her lap and landed on its sole. She stared at it, bent down and reached out to toss it but froze just an inch away. If it was a dream…

She pulled her hand away, straightened up and hurried to the hospital room without a look back.

_The end_

**A/N:** Oh, what an original ending, nah? Tell me what you think, though.


End file.
